


The Spider

by mrs_d



Series: After The War [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (Steve Rogers in the background Not Recovering), Angst, Animal Harm, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes's Notebooks, Future Fic, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson Recovering, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 09:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7096963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barnes is on the other side of Sam's door, looking twitchy and apologetic, shirtless in flannel sleep pants, his metal arm removed from its socket. And that’s when Sam wakes up enough to remember that he’s not in his little house in DC anymore, that he’s living in the new Avengers complex, that he’s sharing a floor with the Winter Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spider

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: note the "Panic Attacks," "PTSD," and "Animal Harm" tags above; more details (spoilers!) can be found in the endnotes.

When knocking wakes Sam up in the middle of the night, he assumes that it’s Steve — for someone with such a brilliant tactical mind, the guy is always forgetting his keys.

Even as Sam makes his way out of the empty bed and across the room, even as he turns the lock and winces at the light streaming in from the hallway, he’s sure that Steve will be standing on the other side of the door, looking dopey and apologetic.

But instead, Barnes is there, looking twitchy and apologetic, shirtless in flannel sleep pants, his metal arm removed from its socket. And that’s when Sam wakes up enough to remember that he’s not in his little house in DC anymore, that he’s living in the new Avengers complex, that he’s sharing a floor with the Winter Soldier.

He tenses. The edge of the door digs into his fingers where he’s gripping it, holding it open, ready to slam it shut and lock it once more.

“Sam,” says Barnes, his voice low and ragged. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Sam asks automatically.

He’s had some practice in this, the last couple years; this isn’t the first time Barnes has apologized to him. It’s not even the first time he’s said the words in the middle of the night.

But it is the first time he’s knocked on Sam’s door when Steve isn’t home, and therefore it’s also the first time that Sam’s opened it for him.

“I— I—” Barnes stammers.

Sam sees the sweat on his forehead, the tears shining in his eyes, the way he can’t seem to catch his breath, and makes a decision.

“Okay,” he says, in a voice made steady by years of training and experience. “Come in, sit down. I’m going to turn on the lamp.”

Barnes nods, sits on the edge of the bed. On Steve’s side.

The light stings Sam’s eyes, but he forces them to stay open as he crouches in front of Barnes, ignoring the little voice of his own panic that says that this is not a safe place to be.

“Flap your hand and tap your left foot,” Sam instructs, and Barnes does it without hesitation, meaning that the panic is as bad as Sam thinks it is.

“Good,” Sam says after a moment. “Now breathe with me. In, 2, 3, 4, 5. Hold, 2, 3, 4, 5. And out, 2, 3, 4, 5.”

Barnes’s eyes fall shut by the second repetition, his hand still flapping in the opposite rhythm to his foot. Sam watches him take three more slow breaths before he speaks again.

“Did you take your medication?”

Barnes shakes his head quickly.

“Do you want me to go get it for you?”

Another head shake, this one accompanied by a worried crease in Barnes’s forehead. “It’ll knock me out. I need to tell you something first.”

“Okay,” Sam says slowly. “And this thing you need to tell me, is this why you’re panicking in the middle of the night?”

“Probably. Yeah,” Barnes amends.

He opens his eyes, and Sam is again reminded of how close they are to one another. He fights the urge to stand up, to put some space between them. Instead, he sits back on his haunches. It’s a reasonable compromise, and Barnes doesn’t seem to be offended by it. His hand and foot go still.

“I was trying to write,” Barnes explains, a little hoarsely. “To remember.”

Sam nods — Barnes does this almost every night that Steve’s away.

“And there was a spider,” he goes on, his voice cracking. “On my page. I don’t know where he came from.”

He squeezes his eyes shut as his breathing speeds up again, so Sam moves forward again, putting a hand on Barnes’s knee to ground him.

“Bucky,” he says gently and quietly. Barnes’s eyes open at once, because Sam doesn’t call him that very often. “Can you look around and tell me five things you see?”

Barnes nods, and his eyes dart away. “You. The closet. The lamp. Dirty laundry on the floor. That ugly-ass picture Steve made you hang in the hall.”

Sam huffs out a small, relieved laugh. “Okay. Now, how about five things you hear. I know it’s quiet, so if you can only hear three—”

“Your breathing. My breathing. Tree frogs. The air conditioner.” He pauses. “My voice?”

“Good,” Sam says again. “Now touch five things.”

Barnes reaches over, his fingers brush against his metal shoulder, squeeze the duvet bunched up behind him, trace the edge of the lamp shade, touch the seam of his pyjama pants, and — after a second’s hesitation — find the back of Sam’s hand. Sam doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away.

“I killed him,” Barnes confesses softly.

Sam tenses at that, and he sits back again, pulling his hand away from Barnes’s leg. Barnes’s face tightens, but he nods like he approves of Sam’s decision to move. He probably does, Sam realizes.

“Killed who?” Sam asks, wary of the answer.

“The spider,” Barnes breathes, and a tear slips down his cheek. “I didn’t even think about it. I just crushed him under my thumb. And now there’s a stain. In my notebook,” he finishes brokenly.

Sam swallows around the lump forming in his throat. He wants to say something soothing, like _it was just a spider_ and _it’ll be okay_ , but the words won’t come.

“And I know it’s stupid,” Barnes continues. “It’s just a spider. But he was innocent. And his blood’s on my page, Sam, I can’t get it out.”

“It’s all right, Bucky,” Sam tells him softly, and he shifts forward instinctually. Only after a second does he realize that he’s hugging Barnes, holding him tightly, if a little awkwardly, and stroking his back.

“It’s all right,” he says again, and he’s not sure if he’s talking to Barnes or to himself. Both, probably.

“I’m sorry,” Barnes says again, pulling away. He seems calmer, steadier now. “I was freaking out, and I thought maybe you— I don’t know. It’s not like you’re my therapist, but—”

“Thank god,” Sam mutters, hoping to get a smile.

It works — the grin doesn’t last long, but it’s there. “Yeah, I don’t envy those guys.”

Sam gets to his feet and sits beside Barnes on the bed. He moves slowly, reminding himself that it’s okay, that he’s safe.

Barnes notices Sam’s cautious movements and gives him a shrewd look. “Are we friends, Sam?”

“Sometimes,” Sam replies.

“Comrades?” Barnes suggests.

In the field there’s no question. There never has been, not since their first encounter in Washington. “Definitely.”

“Do you trust me?”

Sam looks away, considering and then dismissing the idea of lying to spare Barnes’s feelings. “Sometimes,” he says again.

Barnes nods. It was probably the answer he was expecting, but Sam can still see the pain it causes. Sam can’t take it back, though, not now, in the middle of the night when Barnes is mourning the loss of a spider, and Steve is on the other side of the world, out of their reach.

“I trusted you enough to let you in,” Sam adds, because it softens the blow, and it’s true.

“Thank you,” Barnes mumbles. “For... for talking me down.”

“It’s what I do,” Sam says without thinking, like he’s back in his cramped office at the VA with its mahogany bookshelves and its perpetually near-death ficus. He hesitates a second before adding, “Steve used to wake up panicking a lot, when we were looking for you.”

Barnes shakes his head, maybe because he doesn’t believe Sam, or maybe because he’s apologetic about not letting them find him for two years, Sam isn’t sure.

“He had to get pretty good at coping without meds,” Sam goes on. “Pills don’t really work on him.”

“No,” Barnes muses. “I guess they wouldn’t.”

“He, uh. He never talks to you about this kind of stuff, does he?” Sam asks, even though he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.

Barnes shakes his head again. “My therapist says he’s maybe too hung up on the old-fashioned idea that emotional closeness can only be romantic.”

“Well, I could’ve told you that,” Sam snorts.

There is another flash of Barnes’s smile, there and gone again, too quickly.

“I don’t think he’s ever gonna stop looking for Bucky,” Barnes murmurs. “The old Bucky, I mean. His Bucky.”

Sam meets Barnes’s flat gaze and wishes he could disagree.

“Sometimes,” he says cautiously, after a beat of silence, “sometimes I don’t think any of us come back from the war.”

It’s something that he said to his group a lot, and Barnes’s reaction is no different from theirs: a stoic nod, a grim smile.

“And I used to wish,” Sam continues. “I used to wish that I never did, because, at least if I’d died, there’d be a reason why nothing was the same as the way I left it.” He pauses. “It must be even harder for you.”

Barnes shakes his head sharply. “It’s not a competition, Wilson.”

The familiar phrase startles a laugh out of Sam’s chest. “That’s normally my line.”

“Figured as much.” Barnes sighs and gets to his feet. “I should get out of your hair. Thanks for... well, you know.”

He crosses the room and steps out into the hallway. When he reaches back to close the door, Sam realizes that his fear’s been quiet ever since he sat down, that putting space between him and Barnes again suddenly seems like a terrible idea.

“Wait,” he says, and Barnes stops. “Why weren’t you sleeping?”

“Nightmare,” Barnes replies with no hesitation. “Woke me up, so I thought I’d write the rest of the night.”

“Do you want to,” Sam begins, but his fear pipes up again, reminding him that Barnes isn’t his friend, that he won’t just want to hang out.

But Barnes lingers on the threshold, waiting.

“Sun’ll be up soon,” Sam says, once he’s finally told his fear to put a sock in it. “Want to get some breakfast or something?”

Barnes smiles faintly. “Or something sounds good.”

“Mario Kart?” suggests Sam, the words falling from his lips as easily as if he’d planned it.

“Sure,” says Barnes, his smile widening into something more natural and genuine. He turns away, and Sam follows him down the hall to the living room. “But remember what I said about this not being a competition?”

“Oh, you’re on, Barnes,” says Sam without trying, and for a second it feels just like a battlefield taunt — for a second there is easy camaraderie, nothing more and nothing less.

It’s a start. 

**Author's Note:**

> Specific details regarding animal harm, panic attacks, and PTSD:
> 
> Bucky unthinkingly kills a spider and it triggers some flashbacks, and he knocks on Sam's door in the midst of a panic attack. Later, he also mentions having had a nightmare. The fic does not explore Bucky's internal state in depth, however, since it is written from Sam's perspective, and Sam keeps his cool. He uses some movement and breathing techniques to calm Bucky down.


End file.
